Generations have been chosen
among for you; your person holds the inheritance of all that is gracious
and tender and discriminating in a hundred years. You are as rare as I
am, and if there is anything you would take from me, I would make more
than one exchange for the mere niceness of your fibre--the feeling you
have for fine shades of morality and taste--all that makes you a lady,
my dear."
"Such niminy piminy things," said Alicia, contradicting the light of
satisfaction in her eyes. The sound of a step came from the room
overhead, and the light died out. "And what good do they do me!" she
cried in soft misery. "What good do they do me!"
"Considerably less than they ought. Why aren't you up there now? What
more simple, honest opportunity do you want than a sick room in your own
house?"
Alicia, with a frightened glance at the ceiling, flew to her side. "Oh,
hush!" she cried. "Go on!"
"It ought to be there beside him, the charm of you. The room should be
full of cool refreshing hints of what you are. Your profile should come
between him and the twilight with a scent of violets."
"It sounds like a plot," Alicia murmured.
"It _is_ a plot. Why quibble about it? If you smile at him it's a plot.
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